It's a Hit
by Adrienne LaVerne
Summary: A little oneshot that hit me while I was watching kickboxing. slight shonenai if you use the term loosely. I like it if no one else does


Surprisingly, I DO NOT OWN GUNDAM WING

To make up for my laziness regarding elephant...

Ok, this is just a little kind of 1x2 that bit me while I was watching kickboxing… I say kind of because that's how I got the idea for it and because I stole Duo's eyes. I apologise in advance, but I kinda like it.

Warnings: none

--ooOoo--

It's a Hit

_It's over. It's all over. _He thought sadly. Thoughts came easily to him at the moment, flowing like quicksilver behind his eyelids, swirling around, twisting and curving in his mind. Memories did too; it was impossible to stop them.

He felt the spotlights shining bright, heating the sweat on his scalp, running down between his shoulder blades, exposed to the crowds. The sounds washed over him, layer upon layer, building up and yet fading away. He felt the soothing discomfort of the gloves gripped in his hand, the chafing of the nylon shorts on his defined hipbones.

He remembered before the match, the confidence despite his tender ankle, the importance of this match, the importance weighed in the faces around the ring, the face that was there, was always there. He scanned the crowd looking for it. Didn't know why he bothered really, it was always there; front row, shining with the excitement, assurance exuded from the violet eyes that would be trained on him, backing him up, sharing the tension. He couldn't see them though. They weren't there… they HAD to be there; they always were.

All too soon, he heard the silence descend. Where was he? He hadn't missed a match ever. _He'll be there,_ he thought.

Here the memories hazed. He recalled his thoughts, all of the absent face in the crowd, of pain, unbearable pain in his ankle. He had flashes of vision, fists and legs flying… His? His opponent's? Then more pain, interspersed with flashes; a glove on his shoulder, the side of his head, and through, clashing with his head, and he was down, falling against the ropes, to his knees. Up again, a few seconds recovery, still throbbing in his forehead, but up again, still questioning – pleading – with the face in his mind. _Where are you? Why didn't I see you? _Moments later he wavered again, and in that one second an ankle crashed against his exposed neck, and he was down. Down and falling, this was it. He felt agony shattering through his neck, his back, his shoulder, and then… nothing.

He could see past everything; past the shadows of people above him, past the bright, bright lights pinpointed in his eyes. And more blackness.

He lay there, relieved of the oppression of the past for a moment, an hour. Who knew the time when this is all you have? He thought again of those eyes, the face attached. Whose face was it? He fancied he couldn't even remember; it had been so long. But they were important, vital to his wellbeing, his very existence. That face though, it would smile, it would laugh, it would fill him with being. With him he should fight again.

--ooOoo--

Lying in the stillness, he became aware that the tide of his mind had changed. The endless flow that had plagued him was lessening. No; it had stopped entirely. He was left with a calm nothingness, he felt cleansed, reborn. Then, he was aware of a stiffness in his skin, of something rubbing against his neck. It hurt. He gasped softly. That hurt too. His face burned, inside and out, everywhere.

He managed to move, slightly. It was merely more than a twitch, but after so long it felt like so much. He would do it. Do it for the violet eyes, for the passion and confidence, the pain and sorrow that they could hold.

Finally, he worked up the courage to attempt the opening of his own worn eyes. He pulled and strained, feeling like he had hundred weights tied to his eyelids. Then, finally, they edged open a crack. Losing his strength, they slid shut again. But he was more aware now. He could taste the dry stickiness of a mouth that craved a glass of ice water. He could hear music. The quiet humming, both machines and voices, with the quiet off-beat of a machine. Forcing his eyes open again, he was greeted with whiteness. After another eternity, his eyes were accustomed enough to recognise a shape, a shape that he knew to be a head, a silhouette. It moved and there was nothing; whiteness, murmuring.

He caught words that chilled his soul. '…Fight? ...Never… …oh no… …Paralysed…'

He released the forced hold on his eyes again, relaxed his grip on reality, and sunk back into the down cushions of his mind. But they had gone. Instead, he fell hard, and found himself desperate to be away, to wake up from this. Once again, getting easier, he opened his eyes, and everything would be fine, he knew it would be, it was a promise. He opened his eyes to greet the lost, pained gathering of violet tears that was, he knew, his love.

--ooOoo--

As I say, I was watching the kickboxing this evening, and one of them looked so much like Heero probably would if he was a kick boxer. And another one went down like he did in this, bless him it looked horrible; he looked so pretty and yet so horrible KO'd in the ring that I nearly cried. Please R&R

PS I proofread it while watching Monty Python, so any errors just message or review me. Lovelove xx


End file.
